Date: Wed, 20 Aug 2003 21:54:39 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor
Subject: The Reluctant Retrainer - Chapter 8 & 9
These are the 8th and 9th chapters of The Reluctant Retrainer - part two
of a trilogy of novels of gay sex.
Keywords:
authority, control, slavery, punishment,
re-training, submission, loyalty
This story is entirely a work of fiction and all rights to it and its
characters are copyright and private to and reserved by the author. No
reproduction by anyone for any reason whatsoever is
permitted.
If you are underage to read this kind of material or if this material
will be unlawful for you to read where your live, please leave his
webpage now.
Contact points:
eMail: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com
Web: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Erotic_Gay_Stories
The Reluctant Retrainer by Gerry Taylor
Chapter 8 -- Love unending
October was a great month slave-wise. Saying October might give the
impression of autumn leaves and the like, but no. In the Dahran Desert,
it was merely a change of temperature, a couple of degrees down from
unbearable heat, to a more bearable heat and a more frequent sight of
clouds.
The Swedes were pulling more than their weight in the fields. Each of
Aziz's household slaves were doing well. Flavio the Italian was
producing a range of evening dinners which had not been repeated in a
month. Food and Drink were their usual joyful selves. Any day at the Bank
which was stressful, I would call them both to bed and in ten minutes
they would have me on another planet.
Before bedding Radek, Yuriy's lover, I asked Yuriy if that was ok with
him. With a grin, he replied only if he could come along as well! That in
fact was a memorable night. Radek's drum tightness had disappeared,
clearly under Yuriy's nightly attentions, but his anal clenching and
relaxation techniques had to be experience to be believed.
I joked with Yuriy that it was a wonder he could get up in the morning at
all. He laughed and although he playfully slapped Radek's butt, the
sheer love in his eyes for his lover showed a sharing of soul which few
ever achieve in a lifetime.
Two of the most content slaves were Dumi the Moldavian, who just loved
working in the fields and seemed to get an inexhaustible level of work
done. He just loved growing things. His love was Rolf, who was in charge
of the gym and exercise area. Rolf's bubble butt, as our American
cousins would call it, was so classical that all the textbooks could have
been destroyed and just by looking at Rolf's butt, a perfection
description and portrait could have been made of it again.
Rolf and Dumi never expressed an emotion for each other in public.
Mention Dumi to Rolf and two pink spots would appear in the middle of his
cheeks. However, at night their love making would go on long after all
others had gone to sleep on their pallets snuggled up to their own lovers
and companions. Maybe it was their stamina -- Dumi perfectly exercised
body in the fields and Rolf's continually exercised body in the gym. But
that of course, is my opinion and I am clearly jealous of those whose
nightly stamina can hold the world at bay for over two hours after a long
day's work.
It was during this month of October that Ross said something to me one
night in bed to the effect that he had never been happier in his entire
life. It sort of came out of the blue. I had asked him if he wanted to
bring Vitali, his Russian lover up to the room, but he said `No, Boss,
if that's alright with you.'
Normally Ross for me is a bottom and an excellent one at that. We had had
a beautiful session of love-making which went on for over an hour. I was
beginning to feel a little tired, but had not come, and a sheen of
perspiration was all over my body.
Ross did his own peculiar hop, step and jump into the bathroom and out
again landing precisely as he was wont to do right down beside me on the
bed, and with a dry towel, he took over and told me to lie back.
`Yes, sir' I said in mock reply.
`Don't get smart, Boss,' he said with his smile to end all smiles, and
started to dry me down in a patting motion all over. I closed my eyes for
a minute as he was doing it and then realised he had stopped.
On his hunkers beside me, there was Ross tears streaming down his face.
For once, I was really alarmed that something was truly wrong. Ross is
the eternal happy guy and here he was crying his eyes out.
I reached out for him, and looking at me, he said `It's ok, Boss. It's
ok. It's just that for the first time in my life I am so so happy.'
And then he and I began to laugh.
Essentially, his happiness was that now he was answerable to no modelling
or call-guy agency, no tax man, no pressures of any sort, with a lover,
Vitali, whom he totally adored and who loved him to bits and had no
problems about his wardrobe or his laundry bill. At this point, he
flicked his cock and we laughed ourselves into convulsions.
`Ross,' I said, `do you know that behind my back the slaves call me
`Boss' instead of `Master'? I was wondering where that came from?'
`Boss, how on earth would I know that?' and again we dissolved into
laughter.
`Ask,' I said.
`What, Boss?'
`Whatever you want that I can give you.'
`I need nothing, Boss, I am just so happy here at the Aloe Palace. I
like helping Aziz when he has language problems with the Swedes. I like
teaching English to the few I teach. Now the gardens are a bit of a
headache at times, but there is nothing you can do about the Dahran sun'
and again he smiled the smile.
`Ask,' I repeated.
`You are serious, Boss?'
`Deadly, as they say.'
He looked me in the eye and swallowed, and said one word, `Vitali.'
`Vitali?'
`That Vitali can be mine and mine alone to the exclusion of all
others.'
`He must be one special guy, Ross.'
`You have no idea, Boss, no idea at all just how special he is to me.
His one fear is that you will sell him. You know that you have not bedded
him since that first night you assigned the two of us together. He thinks
that you don't like him, particularly after the premmie thing and then
when you lent him to one of the Swedes.'
Ross was referring to an evening some months back when Ross was with me
for that night, and also to Vitali's almost drowning me with his
premature ejaculation.
`Go get him now, Ross.'
`Now, Boss? It's late. They will be all asleep.'
`Now, Ross. Stop arguing.'
Ross sped off and I went into the bathroom for a piss. I was still
looking at myself in the mirror after having washed my hands, when the
two were back, chests heaving at the race back over the courtyard and up
the stairs.
Vitali as usually looked his superb fit self, with a penis in total
hard-one to give any normal person an inferiority complex. He was the one
person I could automatically think of for having an erection, which he
most frequently did have, but not any type of erection but one slap bang
up against his belly, all 8 inches of it, uncut and almost always wet
with precum in his healthy virility.
`So, Ross, what have you told him during the mad rush to get up here.'
`Nothing, Boss, absolutely nothing. He was sound asleep. I don't think
he is even fully awake yet.'
`OK, now tell him what you have just told me.'
`About what, Boss?'
`Don't be stupid, Ross, about him and you.'
Looking at Vitali, Ross wet his lips and swallowed and very very slowly,
he said `Vitali Belov, I love you. I have loved you from the very moment
I set eyes on you.'
Vitali's forehead wrinkled as he did not understand fully what was being
said to him. But Ross continued on regardless, standing naked before his
love who was still gasping for breath.
`I have loved your touch and your breath on my body. I have loved you in
me and when I have been one flesh in you and with you. I love your heart
of fire and your soul of passion. I love ever inch of your body and from
this moment on, I promise I will love you until the day I die.'
Vitali finally understood what was happening and stood stock still as a
proposal of man to man marriage was stated in the cool evening air of my
bedroom. The sky outside the windows was totally black as only desert
skies can be, with piercing dots of brilliantly clear stars. They, I
thought to myself, are the true and quite witnesses to this proclamation
of love.
Ross taking his lover's hand said, `Vitali Belov. I love you until the
day I die. Will you love me?'
Vitali looked at him and very slowly he said, `I love you, Ross,
forever' and raising Ross' hand to his lips he kissed and embraced his
lover. The two simply clung together for an age.
When they finally separated, I told them to get out of the bedroom, and
with a dual `Yes, Boss' they walked out hand in hand.
After that day, I never asked for either Ross or Vitali again. Who am I
to separate two star-crossed lovers even for a night?
Chapter 9 -- Progress
In the weeks following Ross' proposal of marriage to Vitali -- I could
think of no other words to describe it -- I bedded Flavio and Bob on
following nights. It was my second time with Flavio since his rectal
operation. He seemed a little less tight and said with a smile that Bob
had been practising on him.
But strangely enough, my sex with Flavio tended to be minimal. He was
built like a young bull in the tackle department and I was always a bit
uncomfortable with being fucked by very thick cocks. His attitude in this
was quite Italian, if it happened, it happened. If it did not, well, it
did not.
He on the other hand seemed now to genuinely like, at least not to
resist, my more modestly endowed member. But what was even more important
to me was that with all his Italian fire and mercurial blood, he was
submissive to me and my needs, and I loved the feel of his body beside me
when he would fall asleep. He was always like a warm furnace, a small
Mount Etna, always producing heat.
His English had improved immensely due to the classes every evening -- he
was in Ross' class with Radek, Rolf and Yuriy. We talked of food and its
preparation, of sauces and coulis, of soups and fish. In any other
setting it would appear strange that two men -- two naked men lying side
by side - would have spent late into the night talking haute cuisine. But
that was what we did, believe me. I do not lie.
Bob, his lover, came to me that week as well. The young Canadian was the
youngest by far of all the Caucasian slaves, being barely over twenty. As
a Master, I had a very soft spot for Bob. He was the typical alpha-male
all guy jock in mentality and outlook. He was the prime alpha-male among
the strongly heterosexual males and had a very subtle sense of humour. It
had taken him such a long time to adjust to thinking that he was now the
sexual toy of a Master, and living in slavedom in the Middle East.
His tightness problem had been solved some months previously with double
bouts of sex from the larger membered slaves, but now with me again, he
was as nervous as if he were a bride on her first night with a new
husband.
Six foot four if an inch and 90 muscularly fit kilos in weight. Forced
abstinence from female company must have been hard on him, though he had
said he had little practice on females before his `lifting'.
`So, you have been practising on Flavio, I hear.'
His face was a picture. It was so easy to confuse him and turn his
composure upside down.
`He said that Boss?'
`Boss? Boss again? What about Master from time to time?' I said
jokingly.
`Sorry, Boss, I mean, Master. It's just what we say.'
`You mean it's what Ross has you saying, is it not?'
Again, his face was a picture of confusion. Should he say that it was
Ross and get Ross into trouble? Should he try to avoid the question, but
being too young could not think of a riposte to deflect it? He could not
tell a lie without it being written on his face. He did what people
frequently do when caught on the horns of a dilemma. He laughed and
finally put his head on my chest still laughing.
`So, you have been practising on Flavio?'
`Yes, Master. Just a little.'
Bob was not big in the penis department in any dimension. He was also
infertile like Greg my assistant trainer. But that night, I pleasured him
as I hit his straight down prostate always as hard a little nut with the
precision of a metronome. When I allowed him to finally come it was
awesome, and he was a credit to the alpha-male's capacity to produce
cum.
Bob's work was half in the household under Aziz, my head of household.
He also had an English class with Ali, Dumi, Jiri and Vitali, and was
good at it, because they were now talking much better English. He also
worked in the fields for two to three hours each day, particularly with
Jiri and Dumi, with whom he said he got on great.
One of the other slaves, Ali, I took in small doses. He was a Kurd and
only about 18 years old, but his tongue for rimming would have been a
national treasure in any inventory. He was eating this special soup diet
of vegetables and vitamins I had put him on when he first came
skeletal-like from Rashid al-Hamdi's palace.
So when I had Ali in bed, I always made sure to have his lover Jiri there
as well, so that his attention could diverted quickly and easily every
time he was about to send me through the ceiling.
The small tattoo on his arm reminded me again to have the doctor schedule
the new laser treatment for its removal. I like my slaves, as you may
have noticed from my way of describing them to be free of blemishes, not
just ugly warts on their hands or verrucas on their feet, but moles,
tattoos, cysts and anything which takes from the innate and manly beauty
of the human body. Why gild the already beautiful, and for the price of a
few euro? Why not erase the easily removable ugly for my viewing and
personal pleasure? I had also notice that the slaves who had so been
cleared of their blemishes took on a new confidence about themselves.
There are Masters, and I have seen them in Dahra, who crush the will of
their slaves in one way or another. Some are physically harsh on their
slaves. I have head of one Ethiopian who is pumping water from a well for
over fifteen years walking round and round a well. He can no longer walk
straight or upright.
Another Master, a member of a betting group, insists on personally
flogging each new factory slave he gets -- and he buys each month. Why?
Simply because he can and he says it inflicts such pain and instils such
fear in the floggee and in the rest of his worker-slaves that obedience
to him is absolute.
Such physical punishment for its own sake or out of carelessness, to my
mind, is bad and counter-productive at a number of levels.
But I think that worst of all is what I would term, mental or
psychological punishment, where some Masters give their slaves no
encouragement, no pride, no hope, no sense of security and no future to
look to.
With my various training techniques, born more out of need and simple
positive productive experience, and honed over the years, excluding the
odd couple of days of physical re-training for existing slaves, I rarely
if ever have my slaves physically punished. I far far prefer the
psychological approach to either plain cruelty, or bloody minded
infliction of pain for its own sake.
However, to my mind, the greatest under-utilised tool which the Master
has in any household is sex. Plain and simple sex. Well, maybe not so
plain and maybe not so simple.
I have always thought that sex is a most important factor in the life of
a male slave. Not only does the slave think like any healthy man about
sex a lot, but being worked hard, exercised hard and on an extremely
nutritious, if bland, diet of biscuits, will produce more semen than the
more relaxed and sedentary male around.
I do equate sex and water. Sex with out and water will flow. Water will
flow over a sandy river-bed. If it finds a rock, it will flow over or
around it. Sex the same. If it finds an obstacle. It will find a way.
In the case of sex among the slaves at the Palace, I have never really
regarded it as gay sex, but rather as sex between equals which brings all
to the same equality. If all without exception were having sex at the
one time, it could not be gay sex, because as everyone knows gays are
only a minority. Therefore it could not be gay sex, could it?
The slaves are milked each morning by their buddy, usually by being
sucked off, though a minority prefer simply to be jacked off. Before
lights out, all have sex again with their buddy, and after light out they
can continue if the buddy so wishes.
So in summary, each slave will have sex at least sixty times a month.
Ask any man alive would he be happy with sex sixty times a month, and he
is a liar if he comes anywhere near even suggesting a `no'.
The second great result of frequently sex as the slaves have is that
there is no stigma attached to it. All are milked by a buddy. They do
not have to seek out a partner for the day. The partner is there. All
see it in the shower or the slave quarters. All enjoy it. Who does not
enjoy even a poor blowjob at the very least?
The third great advantage for the Palace is that sex soothes and calms.
A sexually milked slave is a docile creature, and much less uppity than
one who has not had sex in a month.
The fourth advantage among others is that sex among slaves is neither
straight nor gay. It is simply a function like pissing. All have to
engage in at set times, because that is the Palace rule. So even the
straightest and most die-hard of heterosexuals will feel no qualm in
fucking a buddy or in having to give a buddy a nice back massage in the
showers followed by a blowjob or wank, because they know that either
following it immediately or the following night, it will be their turn to
be passive and to be the centre of attention of their buddy's sexual
efforts.
The fifth advantage is for me, the Master. When I want to take a slave,
there is no misgiving about him having been straight or bi in a previous
life -- very few of the slaves at the Palace have been known to me to
have been gay from the word go, though some have come in time to realise
they were.
When that slave is called to my bed, he comes with ease and gladly, in
many cases feeling honoured that he has been chosen for the night.
Last but least among the advantages is that sex promotes great bonds of
friendship, bonding, caring and even love between buddies. Some buddies
have never changed partner since their first being allocated one, and
that makes as well for a peaceful household.
That thought reminded me that the only two of the household slave whom I
have never bedded are the two permanent buddies--whom I formerly called
the `layabouts'--Mamoud and Mehmed, though I have been strongly of late
tempted to get closer to Mamoud for his obvious magnanimity in his
dealing with Todd.
It was actually in bed one evening having sated my fill with an
ever-and-ever better assed Bob, that I realised that Aziz really had no
slave or lover to call his own.
And I wondered how Greg, my assistant trainer overseer, was getting on
with Jess Tollman, the latest of the slave arrivals to the household.
Jess Tollman cut a superb figure of a man-slave, not just fit, well cared
for in his body, a nicely growing four to six pack. He had lost his
beer- or love-handles some months back and was building up nicely.
What Jess lacked was confidence. Confidence in his mind that he could do
better than the automotive worker that he had been and paint factory blue
collar work that he had done prior to that. But that confidence would
come in time as he found his metier at the Palace. At 24 years of age,
he had plenty of time to develop. Now he was assisting Greg, whenever
Greg needed help.
I got my answer some days later, over a weekend, when looking for Greg on
some matter I walked over to his overseer's quarters and was about to
walk right in, as would have been my right, but by accident looking
through the uncurtained window saw Jess Tollman kneeling on the floor in
front of Greg who was pissing into his open mouth.
When Greg then finished, he gave his flaccid penis to Jess to suck dry
and then gave him his butt hole to lick. I am not quite sure if Greg had
gone to the toilet before that episode. I just did not wish to think
about that. Not my cup of tea, but clearly one very effective way to make
a slave submissive. And Jess, the once indomitable American redneck was
now quietly kneeling at the feet of an obvious master--not quite a
whipped puppy, as he weighed in at 210 lean and muscled pounds of prime
American manhood, but a submissive slave.
I left Greg to his training of Jess Tollman, his buddy and assistant in
the retraining centre, and to his own devices. To each his own, as they
say.
Aziz, however, was another problem I wished to solve and was not quite
clear how to go about it. But I made a start in requesting the slave
dealer at al-Mera to send me his catalogue--the al-Mera auction being the
next one on the calendar.
The catalogue was the usual one. How that trips off the tongue! I have in
fact only seen three, maybe four, such catalogues. This one was little
different to the others, with about 40 or so slaves on offer. A silent
prayer of gratitude that there was no Swede on it to have Gustav Ahlson
worrying about.
I called in Aziz and asked his opinion that I wanted to buy a new slave
for the household. He looked at me and there was a question in the look.
He is no one's fool having served the al-Akhri family for over forty of
his fifty years.
`You know, Aziz, someone who can help you. You know, share the workload
with you. Even your bed.'
Heaven knows, I was really waffling.
`The Master is not pleased with my work?'
It was as near an accusation that an overseer can make to a Master in a
simple question.
`No, Aziz, the very opposite. I am really pleased with your work and I
want to give you a present. I can't give you more clothes or a better
ogal as you will not wear them. You have a fly-swish of your authority'
-- and he swished it as if in reflex action -- `so I want to give you a
companion of your choice.'
`The Master does not have to do that.'
`Aziz, for the sheikdom's sake, I know that. You know that. Simply
choose a slave from the catalogue and it will give me the greatest of
pleasure to do it for you.'
For the first time since knowing him, I thought I saw a crack in his
armour. But, of course, I must have been mistaken, because when I looked
again, Aziz was the usual inscrutable Aziz.
`And if I do not see the slave I want in the catalogue, Master?'
`Then there is the market auction at al-Qatim in two weeks' time, and
again at al-Mera a fortnight after that. Don't worry, Aziz, I am sure
that you will see someone who is of interest to you.'
It really is at times very difficult to please people you do not really
know, particularly when the person is in fact your slave and the overseer
head of your household to boot!
Aziz returned the catalogue to me the following morning. There was
nothing in it of interest to him. I asked him to tell me what he was
looking for and he said enigmatically that he would know when he saw the
slave. Talk about frustration!
I contacted both dealers at al-Mera and al-Qatim and asked for any extra
catalogues they might have.
Was I looking for a special or any particular type?
No, I was not -- which was the truth. Aziz was and he was not saying --
which did not help me. However, six catalogues arrived that afternoon --
three a-piece from each dealer -- though both pointed out that the third
catalogue in each case was for the next auction, and the first two being
of slaves either not sold in previous auctions or not really good enough
to be at auction.
I flicked through the catalogues, but could see nothing which I thought
interesting. This sounds so callous when you are looking at the future
lives of almost a total of almost 200 slaves from all major parts of the
globe.
I handed the six catalogues to Aziz that evening. He bowed his usual
little bow and went out with them under his arm.
Twenty minutes later, he was back. There was a quickness in his step.
Could it have been that he had seen some slave or other in the catalogue?
But yes, he had. He had seen two. Possibles. Maybe, just maybe.
Each catalogue has a number of the top of each page and I noted down the
two numbers he gave me. Neither slave was at auction, but rather each had
been left over from previous auctions. One at al-Mera and one at
al-Qatim.
Pretending nonchalance, I threw the catalogues on my desk and I said,
`Perhaps tomorrow if I have a moment, I shall maybe make an enquiry.
Leave it with me' and I dismissed Aziz and went back to my make-belief
reading.
No sooner than he had gone, I quickly opened the two catalogue to find
what had taken his fancy. One slave was 6 foot 7 and the other 6 foot 8.
Crickey! Good heavens, Aziz was into size! Even in their photographs
they were not just big. They were huge!
I took out a pad and tried to find all the common denominators finding
out precisely what had caught Aziz's fancy if not the sheer height.
6 foot 7 /200 cms 6 foot 8 / 203 cms
Bulgarian Uzbek
28 years 27 years
120 kgs 124 kgs
Cut Cut
16 cms /6.3 in flaccid 20 cms / 7.8 inches
25 cms /10 in erect 30 cms /11.8 inches
Farm worker Mechanic
It could have been any number of comparisons. I laughed at the boxes
where it ticked off `Anal virgin : yes.' Anyone who would take tried a
pass at either of these two would either have to have been blind, pissed
out his mind, or stupid, or all three.
The following day after work, I went to al-Qatim and saw the Bulgarian.
If in photos he was big, in the flesh he was positively
body-building-weight-lifting Olympian! He had been promised a job with a
lot of money in Syria, but two full injections later and he was on his
way to Dahra and a life of slavedom. His private parts were so sizeable
that merely just looking at them made mine shrivel into my body. The
slave-dealer fondled a testicle the size of a Seville orange.
The dealer said, `Would the Master like to have him brought bring him to
erection?'
The Master would not. The Master was in denial!
The dealer said half in jest `He does not bite Master and has been well
trained.'
I should darn well hope he didn't bite. I should bloody well hope that
he was well trained - one of his hands alone looked capable of ripping
off a decent sized head.
I said to the dealer that I was looking for such a slave for a friend,
but if the friend refused to take him....
`Absolutely no problem, Master, I shall take him back. And may I ask how
are the English and the Czech slaves behaving which you bought here some
time back?'
This was one clued-in dealer. He was referring to Ross and Jiri. I said
that they were perfect for the jobs which they were doing. He beamed as
if he had chosen them and their jobs himself.
I said that I would take the Bulgarian. The price was twenty five
thousand euro and I would have a draft from the Bank sent round to him.
The dealer seemed to demur for a moment as if trying to make up his mind.
`Whatever and whenever it is suitable, Master. Your personal cheque is
more than acceptable, even your credit card.'
I looked at him in amazement. Buying a slave by credit card! Dahra had
really arrived on the world trading scene. But I simply would not buy a
slave with a credit card. A proper cheque, yes, but a credit card,
never! Next thing you know and they would be running your card through a
swipe machine and offering you an accessories catalogue! There is such a
thing as propriety and a correct way of doing things, as any Englishman
knows.
`Master, may I offer you a 10% discount on this slave? Twenty two
thousand five hundred euro.'
Now I began to get a bit anxious. I looked at him in surprise as I was
pulling out my personal chequebook. Dealers in any business do many
things. One thing they don't do is offer you an after-sales-deal
discount.
He saw my surprise and continued, `The Master is the retrainer? Are you
not? Your reputation in the handling of slaves has preceded you and we
have even heard that you are helping sort out the difficulties of one of
our better clients in mining.'
He saw that I was about to say something negative from the look on my
face.
`Master, your reputation is totally private. Absolutely and totally
private, but if at some future stage, I were to have a difficult slave in
need of retraining -- you do see that I have over a hundred at any one
time between auctions -- it would greatly relieve my disquiet and give me
peace of mind that I might be able to seek your advice.'
I thanked him for the discount and wrote him out the cheque.
But before handing it over, I queried `such advice would rarely be
sought and if given would be totally private?'
His ear to ear smile as he took the cheque was his positive reply apart
from his `Yes, of course, Master.'
I told him to have the Bulgarian slave delivered to the Aloe Palace just
after seven that evening and the dealer almost did a little dance as I
went out.
In the open air and out of the overwhelming size of the Bulgarian, whose
name according to the file was Yedo Petrov, I actually took a deep breath
when outside and felt tall again -- all six foot miserable two of me.
I had my driver bring me down the coast to al-Mera and the second auction
rooms. I was still determined to find out for myself the determining
factor of Aziz's choice.
To be continued...